


i am the heart that you call home

by unveils



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Falling In Love With The Same Asshole Twice: The Kent Story, Fluff, Kit Purrson - Freeform, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 11:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14331963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveils/pseuds/unveils
Summary: When Kent’s twenties pass in a blur of hockey and firsts, the rise and fall of Jack Zimmermann's importance in his life, he starts to think he must be one of them -- part of the unlucky 40% of the population born without a soulmate mark, and doesn’t that just figure, because it’s not like he hasn’t already made enough emotional missteps to last a lifetime.So when he wakes up to Jack Zimmermann’s name in slim, familiar letters etched into the skin underneath his collarbone, natural as the jagged scar across his sternum and the faded spades tattoo on his ribcage, he thinks, oh.Oh.





	i am the heart that you call home

**Author's Note:**

> my relationship with omgcp canon has been not great for a while, but i'll ride or die on this hill for kent & jack, so i guess this is fic acts a kind of my version of a fix-it? sprinkled with 800 self-indulgent headcanons, haha. in this story, both kent AND jack deal with mental health issues (because i do, lmao) and it's very much a prominent plot point in the story, but the main focus is obviously the soulmate stuff. special thanks to all my kent friends who i have screamed to for 12000 years over this (especially erin xoxo), u guys rock and keep my interest in this fandom from waning. 
> 
> there's also a teeny mention of an eric/jack breakup, so go ahead and skip this one if that's not your thing! otherwise, enjoy ♥

It starts with Kent deciding to move on.

When he finally pulls himself from the too-cramped frathouse in the middle of fucking Nowhere, Massachusetts tasting like stale beer and Jack Zimmermann’s spearmint gum, he thinks: this is it. That it must be. There’s never going to be closure, or a Parson-Zimmermann Stanley Cup, or a Britney backtrack playing for the final finish line they cross together in the rain -- this is really it, and Jack is done.

Maybe Kent is done, too.

It’s one of those clear thoughts that cuts through a haze of bleary hysteria-panic-anger-regret, hitting him somewhere deep enough that it pangs, echoes back and forth in his mind for the entire drive back to the airport, the entire ride back to Vegas, the entire week after.

This is it.

Off paper, it’s not as cut and dry. The Britney comes later, with the self-hate, smeared underneath a flimsy cover of overdoing it on alcohol. Troy takes him home from the bar to his empty apartment and Kent falls to pieces in the doorway when he can’t find Kit, hands shaking a familiar spiral into something he’s not nearly sober enough to wave away with a smile.

He’s thankful for the way Troy stays until his breathing evens out, quiet and comforting.

“My sister used to get them -- attacks.” He says, finally, answering a question Kent doesn’t ask. “She always told me it helped knowing someone was there, you know, for like, after.”

The next day, he books an appointment with a therapist. Her name is Caroline, she specializes in DBT, and she’s a dog person.

A year later, he goes out to a bar and meets Ethan. Small eyes, brown hair, freckles -- laughs a bit too loud, but he likes Kent, even the morning after. It’s good and it’s different for the months that it lasts, not defined but consistent enough that it doesn’t sit in the back of his head with a question attached. Kent learns that he likes being kissed for the sake of kissing, that it’s nice to be with someone who wants you inside their life instead of hanging outside the fringes for when you’re feeling shallow and need to be weighted down.

He also learns he’s bad with emotional spillage, about compartmentalizing and blowing up when he can’t take it anymore. Ethan tells him that, not Caroline.

Ethan tells him that maybe sometimes he’s selfish when he shouldn’t be, that he cares too much about his cat and his fans and his Instagram, and not enough about addressing his real problems.

Kent gets angry, at first, because that’s what he always does, angry in the wake of all the small things he’s let sit in the back of his mind like a trail of unlit matches, but it comes out like a croak when he finally tells Caroline, like an admission.

 _Okay, Kent,_ Caroline tells him. _You’ve got problems. Who doesn’t? So let’s go from there._

There’s another, after Ethan -- less serious, but good and different, too. Maybe Kent still thinks about Jack, but it’s nothing like a wound held together by the harsh press of Kent’s fingers, loose and dirty but made-due -- Caroline says it’s just normal.

That it’s just what happens when you loved someone.

This one has bright eyes and dark hair and when they break up, Kent says some shit he regrets and thinks about Jack until his sides ache and his hands shake and there’s a broken glass on his floor that used to be a cup in his hand. He thinks about how Jack’s done, and he’s done, too -- isn’t that what he said -- so _maybe it’s time to actually start fixing the messes you’ve made, to start learning how to avoid problematic behaviors in the first place like an adult_.

The Aces win another cup the year Kent turns thirty. Troy gets married, and Kent talks to his sister at the wedding. Jack makes captain of the Falconers, and it’s all over the news -- a thousand and one articles starting with questions about Jack Zimmermann’s worth as a player, about his potential as a captain.

Kent sends a text when he hears about it -- something simple and congratulatory.

He doesn’t expect a response, but Jack sends him one.

They talk about hockey, life, and nothing at all. Like no time has passed -- like it hasn’t been years, because that’s how Jack operates, and it’s almost like Kent forgot how easy it is for him, to just ignore the elephant in the room.

But there’s no resentment, not at thirty, not after Ethan and the other one and Caroline, not after all this time -- just the way Kent misses him, still, different and the same, and the ease and familiarity that comes with accepting Jack Zimmermann’s unusual ways of extending the olive branch.

It starts when he moves on.

 

\--

 

Not a lot of people put all that much weight into soul bonds, marks, whatever in 2018 -- maybe it was tradition, once, to ask some higher power to carve out the exact right path for you and scoot you along it, but not so much anymore. Only something like 60% of people ever get a name in their lives, and sometimes those people don’t even stick to what they’re given because they’d rather figure shit out for themselves or they’re already in love with someone else.

When Kent’s twenties pass in a blur of hockey and firsts, the rise and fall of Jack Zimmermann, he starts to think maybe he’ll have to figure his own shit out, too -- that he must be one of the unlucky 40% without a soul mark, and doesn’t that just figure, because it’s not like he hasn’t already made enough emotional missteps to last a lifetime.

So when he wakes up to Jack Zimmermann’s name in slim, familiar letters etched into the skin underneath his collarbone, natural as the jagged scar across his sternum and the faded spades tattoo on his ribcage, he thinks, _oh._

Oh.

His fingers skirt over it, expecting an indent -- wishing for something he can feel, scrape off with the brunt of his nails. And there’s an irony there, that there’s nothing about even this version of Jack, lodged into him, that Kent can grab ahold of -- his fingers make it easily from one side of his collarbone to the other and back again until there’s a rubbed-raw line of skin illuminating Jack’s name even lighter in the mirror.

Fuck. Jesus fuck.

His first coherent thought beyond panic is a fucking lightning bolt of anger, of unbridled _rage_ because like hell he’s going through this again -- he rode that train once and now that he’s finally off it, fate wants to throw him back on?

Like hell. Like _hell._

He picks up his phone, half hysteric, but shockingly clear, and he types out a text with one hand.

_Buy a plane ticket_

_I’m not doing this over the phone_

 

\--

 

To his credit, Jack looks as turned inside-out as Kent feels.

It’s the first time he’s seen him in person off the ice in years and it should feel like some kinda milestone for their friendship as it stands on its shaking legs that Kent doesn’t lose his mind over it, but instead all it brings forth is how angry Kent is that this it’s happening to him, the acknowledgement that he doesn’t even know Jack anymore and hasn’t for years.

They sit, for a while, two assholes at a coffee shop trying to figure out how to begin this conversation.

Eventually, it’s Jack, grappling desperately for Kent’s gaze as he stabs his fork into a dry croissant.

“Are you… I mean, are you seeing anyone?” Jack looks confused at and irritated with his own words as they hit the air, and Kent’s fork goes through to the plate with a ding. “Look, I just meant-- I just _mean--_ ” He half rubs at his face, scours a hand down his half-beard. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just mean that I’m sorry, and I don’t expect anything.”

Kent looks up, finally.  “You’re sorry?”

“It might be best to start with that, yeah. I… owe you a lot of apologies, Parse, and I know a lot of them are late--”

He wants to tell Jack he doesn’t need this, because it’s over, but closure is closure and Kent has been waiting on this conversation since he was eighteen years old.

But he just fucking sighs.

“You don’t owe me anything, Jack. We both pulled some fucked up shit, it was forever ago.” Kent puts down his fork. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you, at the house, or whatever, about your teammates-- I shouldn’t have come up there.”

Jack looks at the table. “You shouldn’t have had to.”

He’s quiet for minute, and Kent wonders if this is what he thought this would feel like. He swallows hard, can’t keep himself from getting overwhelmed in the moment, but it dissipates easily when a barista audibly passes by their table.

It’s so stupid how easy it is to placate him. It’s so stupid that this is all it took. It’s so stupid -- in hindsight, Kent feels a hundred years older than he was back at that house but no less close to the surface he’s buried his heartbreak under.

He breathes out.

“So we’re both sorry, we were both stupid.” Jack smiles, a little sardonic and entirely familiar. Kent rolls his eyes, another familiarity, but it doesn’t change anything about _now._

“Well, I’ve been single for a while, so you’re chill in the homewrecking department. For now.” Kent grins, and definitely tries not to fumble with names. “Does, uh-- Does Eric know?”  

Jack looks lost at the turn of conversation, and then irritated, again. “I’m not seeing anyone either.”

Kent wants to press, but figures it’d be weird. He’s about to tap into the awkward silence when Jack speaks up again, obviously desperate to change the subject. “I bought some, like, cover-up? Google says that’s supposed to work magic for this stuff. We have a couple months to figure out locker room logistics, if that’s even an issue for you.”

Once the words have left Jack's mouth, Kent wishes so violently that they hadn’t. How he feels with Jack, it's so stop and go -- casual to nauseous in seconds. Acknowledging the concept of Jack having a matching mark of Kent’s name on his _body_ for the rest of his _life_ as an abstract is one thing, but not even being able to see it --

He feels weirdly entitled, wonders if Jack would let him look.

If Jack would ask to see, too -- to touch --

Jesus, this is so fucking weird.

When he looks up, Jack is staring at him, contemplative, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing.

Kent doesn’t wait for a follow-up, already standing to throw away his garbage.

 

\--

 

He likes to think he’s not as dumb and careless as he was at 26, but sometimes, he makes mistakes. Stepping into Jack’s hotel room and hovering weirdly in the doorway sure takes him right back to being in Jack’s bedroom at the Haus, too close for anything but tension.

Jack isn’t at all hesitant in pulling his shirt off, mechanical, like it’s second-nature to be naked in front of Kent or something. Which sucks. And is great. But mostly sucks, what the fuck.

All the same, there’s a moment of hesitance -- of _unsure_ \-- in how Jack places himself on the edge of the bed, a pause of anxiety in the moment where he has to wait for Kent to move forward, to look.

“I don’t really think it’s that noticeable?” Jack says, fingers going to touch it where it sits on his hip, and Kent does move, gets close enough to see the seamlessness of his own signature -- not the fancy autograph shit, but the way he signs his checks, scrawled letters in a mismatch of upper and lowercase letters.

“Yeah,” Kent breathes, because it’s something to say, to fill the silence. Yeah, that certainly is his fucking name, in his fucking handwriting, on Jack’s fucking hip.

Yeah, it sure is.

He feels hot and uncomfortable at once, kind of out of body.

“Jesus.” He says, and sinks down next to Jack on the bed, too close, too close, but that’s his name where he wanted it to be for so long.

Jack is silent as Kent lifts his fingers, lets them twitch into a resting place on the bed so Kent can see better. Echoes Kent’s awe when he says, “yeah,” a little breathless and unsure.

It’s too close for comfort -- too close and too familiar and Kent is careful in extracting his hand before he lingers, and thinks that he should still be angry about this.

He clears his throat. “Yeah, cover-up should be fine. Dunno about sweat, though.” Kent’s mouth quirks and he chortles before he can stop himself. “Dude, you’re like a sweat _machine_ when you get off the ice.”

Jack’s eyebrows pinch with laughter, and he seems to relax a little, settling back on the mattress. “Like you’re any better? You’re stupider than you look if you think I’ve forgotten about the whole locker room sock stink of 2008.”

Kent can’t help it, can’t help the way his arm reaches out to punch at Jack’s shoulder, like they’re still friends or something, like this moment can pull itself backwards into a timeline forgotten. Jack rolls with it, easily grabbing ahold of Kent’s fist and pulling him forward until they’re rolling around atop of the bed like boys, like children.

“You’re such a dick, god.” Kent chirps, bright despite himself, attempting to press Jack’s hands down against the mattress. “Say it.”

Jack’s always been bigger, though, more body mass -- he shoves against Kent’s hold until they’re both huffing for breath, Jack on his forearms, Kent’s hands atop of them, weight settled atop Jack’s lap.

Jack smirks, dirty and competitive and Kent’s insides twist.

“Say _it_ ,” Kent presses, letting his weight fall down harder. “Say my feet smell like fuckin’ roses, Zimms. Like freshly cut grass, rain on concrete, all that shit, you absolute dick--”

There’s a moment in the space between them, Jack’s smile and Kent’s pushing, that just makes sense.

It aches.

“Alright,” Jack says, and his smile is softer as he settles back against the bed, the only way Jack Zimmermann knows how to give in -- by side-stepping. “I’ll invest in some _strong_ concealer.”

 

\--

 

Jack goes back to Boston, and Kent goes back to the rest of his life.

They text more. Jack sends Kent small compliments on his plays, his interviews -- chirps him a bit, even, about makeup brands.

Kent’s gotten good at compartmentalizing, over the years -- prioritizing. Even when he's not supposed to. Things are normal.

They stop being normal about a month into the new season. He’s halfway into an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and three-fourths into working out the kinks in a potential new play strategy when he gets the feeling that something’s wrong. Not _wrong_ like maybe he left his car unlocked, but _wrong_ like base instincts wrong. Kit perks up from where she’s curled on the cushion next to him, and gives him a look.

Kent just swallows, stuffs another dorito into his mouth and continues writing to McDreamy’s newest monologue. Not twenty seconds later it’s there again, like a twinge in his gut. And then again, like the feeling of fingers ghosting over his skin.

He’s had moments of ‘yeah, okay, so _this_ is what it’s like to be fucking insane’ before, maybe, when he was too high, when he was too low, even when he was just right in the middle, feeling too much, but this is --

Like a stream of thoughts and feelings hitting him all at once, foreign but familiar, like some kinda fucked up out of body experience.

He drags a hand down to his stomach where the ghosting feels impossible, and heat flares rapidly, like --

 _Warm / warm / comfortable / too long / frustrated / not enough_ \--

Holy shit.

If it feels voyeuristic, Kent tells himself that’s not his fucking fault, that that can’t even _make sense_ , because you can’t _feel_ someone else’s _emotions_.

_Not enough / too much / shower water / exactly fifteen minutes / alone / not enough / not enough_

Kent feels -- flushed, flustered. He pulls his cap off his head and tosses it onto the couch, makes for the bedroom, the shower, _something_.

He’s already half hard in his shorts when he shuts the door, and it’s easy to just slip his hand inside, dry, and sigh for the relief of it.

_Shower --_

The water’s too cold, too cold, and he dials it up until it’s unbearable. Until it’s right, and _he_ feels unbearable, too tight in his skin, bleeding over, one hand on his dick and the other on the shower wall in front of him.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t think about anything -- he doesn’t try for a fantasy, doesn’t have to, because apparently he’s already got one.

Blonde hair, splashes of freckles, the sharp curve of someone’s back in a worn t-shirt, and the smell of --

_Sixteen / together / ten minutes until / alone / now / close / close / warm_

Kent’s orgasm is long and hard without warning, not the winding build-up it usually is, but a straight rush of frustration to pleasure.

He grimaces and lets his head fall forward to meet the shower wall, standing under the scalding spray and knowing exactly who the fuck he’s thinking about.

 

\--

 

Kent googles it.

There are a about a million articles from Cosmo to Reddit about how great masturbation is when you’re bonded, so long as it means something, so long as you’re emotionally ready for it.

_Like you’re inside your partner’s head --_

He tells himself it’s _not_ voyeuristic. That it can’t be, when he and Jack aren’t bonded in any way but physically. They’re barely _friends_ , they haven’t been more than that in years. So they’d gotten off together, it didn’t have to mean anything. Neither of them knew, anyway, so why would it?

Kent shuts his phone off.

 

\--

 

Fourth game into Jack’s first season as captain, the Falconers lose. It’s painful to watch them get thrashed so thoroughly, taken apart so easily -- even worse to see Jack in the middle of it, that hard, distant look on his face that means he’s blaming himself for something.

There’s an interview at the end, with the team, and Jack looks cold, far away.

Kent feels it coming, this time, before it does.

A sear of overwhelming panic and nausea and self-hatred, familiar and ugly like a snake backed into a corner hissing wildly. Kent breathes out through his nose, and places his hands on his knees.

It’s --

He always used to wonder what Jack felt, what it’d be like to crawl inside of him during those moments when he was so far away it hurt to see him close, physically. Kent used to wish he could take it, shoulder it -- knew that if he could have anything in the world, it’d be to take Jack’s shit away from him, just like that.

Now, Kent just feels _angry_ \-- wants to move himself through the television screen to grab ahold of Jack and tell him that he’s not alone, and he never had to be, what an idiot.

That he never will be alone again, not like this, not if Kent can help it.

Kent turns off the television and books both his regular cat-sitter and a red-eye to Boston.

 

\--

 

Jack looks exhausted when he answers the door, and Kent doesn’t give him any warning, just nudges past him into the apartment.

For it, Jack looks confused, and Kent makes a vague, noncommittal gesture, not entirely sure what he’s even doing here himself. He just feels, feels so much, and wonders if Jack does, too. If Jack can feel anything at all with how little room he gives himself to breathe. Kent’s angry, and Kent’s numb, and Kent’s been wishing for closure and meaning and _why_ since he was fifteen years old and first knew he was in love with Jack Zimmermann.

He doesn’t think, just reaches up to wrap both arms around Jack’s shoulders, and tries, with all his might, to _be_ there, be enough, for once.

“You don’t have to do this alone.” Kent says, into the silence. “You never had to.”

Jack freezes, and exhales, shakes and shudders and sighs -- falls against Kent, falls into his weight, and lets himself be held.

 

\--

 

Jack wakes, predictably, before the ass crack of dawn. Kent’s body feels the time difference and hauling ass across the country all at once, the emotional weight of the night and something uniquely irritable towards Jack in particular. Still, he rolls over, glances at him as he's changing into his running shorts.

All it takes is Jack asking.

“Take a walk with me?”

Boston is colder than Kent is used to these days, and he wonders if that means Las Vegas is finally home. His cheeks flush with the chill of the air as it hits his lungs, as he follows behind Jack on a running path that winds and winds.

They don’t talk. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, or a particularly surprising one -- Jack is one-track minded during work-outs, always has been, and honestly, at this point, he’s not the only one who needs to burn off stress.

They pull to a stop after about an hour or two -- the sun is up around them now, bright over the tops of the trees that surround them. Jack’s hands falls to his knees, and he huffs, heavy, giving Kent a moment to realize that they’ve made their way to some kind of meadow off-trail.

It’s beautiful and peaceful, some kind of hiker’s hideaway, and Kent wonders how often Jack spends time here. There’s a moment of envy, just a moment, for a place like this -- for the isolation of it, the calm.

When he looks back over, Jack’s smiling.

Kent smiles back, can’t help it -- wipes his forehead with the front of his shirt and says, “Good morning.”

Jack looks sheepish. “I’m glad you came.”

Kent just shakes his head; moves closer, and flicks Jack’s forearm and raises an eyebrow. “See? Sweaty.”

Jack laughs, real and bright in the sunlight, and Kent feels it all the way down to his bones.

They situate themselves on the grass, and Jack tosses Kent a granola bar from a stupid fannypack he insists on wearing that makes him look like a mom who owns a Subaru.

“So,” Jack says, and Kent snorts.

“ _So._ ” He echoes, sarcastically.

Jack shakes his head. “So -- single, huh?”

Kent laughs, open-mouthed and bad-mannered, around a bite of granola. “Single enough to fly across the country and spend the night on an IKEA couch with your giant ass, yeah.”

He doesn’t even look sorry.

Kent’s not, either.

“Is it a nice one, at least?” And it’s the kind of cheek that Kent remembers from Jack in the early days, sarcasm and dry humor.

Kent bites down hard on his granola bar and doesn't ask for clarification on which Jack means. “It’s alright.”

Jack hums, but keeps the rest to himself.

 

\--

 

When they get back to the apartment, Jack goes about his morning routine. Kent showers. It’s not normal, but it’s comfortable. He’s got like, 12 texts from Scraps, one from Troy asking if he’s good, and a handful of Snap stories. Las Vegas feels lightyears away, but he wills himself to write them both back.

Drying off in Jack Zimmermann’s bedroom, he wants to ask himself what the _fuck_ he’s doing, but the thing is, he knows -- it’s crystal clarity. This time around, Kent doesn’t have the fall of youth to justify going back down this hole. He wants to feel angry, still, because that’s who he is, wanting Jack to say and do things he never will, but he’s older, now.

He knows himself. He knows that watching and feeling Jack out from a distance would’ve been agony, _agony,_ and no matter how much he wants to carry that anger, that grudge, he knows he’d rather die than willingly see Jack suffer, and that’ll never change, no matter how much time passes.

So they’re just in this now, and Kent’s gotta -- deal, or whatever.

But they’re not teenagers anymore.

Jack’s on a voice call when he moves into the kitchen, talking animatedly about some kids television show that Kent has never seen. It sounds like there’s an argument going, but Jack’s at ease, smiling.

One of his friends from school maybe?

Kent tries not to feel like a stalker as he lingers in the doorway, watching Jack talk, wondering what he’s even doing with himself --

He takes care to avoid showing up on screen, using the long way around the island to get to the fridge, peeking in curiously. There’s not much there -- a few beers that aren’t even Jack’s brand, some milk, a couple of cheese sticks -- and like, big shocker there, but Kent takes comfort in the fact that not much has changed. He opts for an apple from the browning stack on the counter and scrolls through his phone until Jack finishes up, closing his laptop.

His smile makes Kent feel warm, stupid, like he needs to look away before he rolls his eyes. Instead, he bites into the apple, and goes for a chirp, mouth still half-full. “So, cartoons man, huh? Jack Zimmerman, now a connoisseur of culture.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yeah, it’s just some stupid show Shitty likes.”

Shitty. Right.

Beard guy.

“So you’re still pretty close with your college friends?” Kent goes for casual, neutral.

Jack doesn’t look surprised by the question, or angry, like Kent thought he might. “They helped me through a pretty rough time in my life. I don’t think I’d be where I am without them.”

Kent rolls that over in his mind, thinking of Troy, Scraps, of the rest of the Aces. How they weren’t Jack but they were real and they were there, a tether until it didn’t matter anymore. Until they were something new.

“I’m glad someone was there for you.” He says, finally.

“Yeah,” Jack says, quiet. “Me too. Listen, Parse, I--”

Kent holds up a hand. “Nah, it’s cool. Really. Like, yeah, of course I wish it had been me, but if it couldn’t have been, then I’m glad it was someone.”

There’s a handful of awkward seconds, but Jack looks -- pleased enough with that answer.

“So you should _call_ them when you’re feeling like you did last night, dude. Call your friends. You get so stuck in your head sometimes, Jack, it’s like -- you become this totally different person no one can reach.” Kent presses on. “Don’t be stubborn, and don’t be stupid, and don’t be _alone_. Call the people who care about you.”

Jack is quiet, for a moment. “About that, I… Kent, how did you even--”

“It’s the--” He waves his hand. “The _bond_ or whatever. You project, and I… feel, I guess. A lot. I don’t know if that’s normal, or just _you_ being the stubborn wall of feeling that you are, but hey, man. No judgment. Except a lot of that, actually, because it makes it hard to sleep at night.”

“You -- feel?” Jack looks confused, and alarmed, but mostly like he does when he’s working out a play on the ice. “Always--?”

Kent shakes his head. “Only when you’re all -- not emoting right, probably. When you’re in your head.”

Jack nods. “Before last night?”

Kent thinks about how much time he spent not being honest with Jack as a teenager -- how much time they spent not being honest with each other, stuck together anyway, some weird, vicious cycle of emotional chicken.

They’re not teenagers anymore.

Still, he slides a hand across the back of the neck, hates the way he feels the way it heats so easily underneath his fingers. “Uh, once. When you jerked off in the locker room shower?”

Jack’s eyebrows knit together. “Is that normal?” He looks -- stormy, suddenly, but still calculating. “Jesus, Kent. You could’ve told me. I could’ve--”

“Could’ve _what?_ Blueballed yourself for the greater good? It’s not like _I’ve_ never jerked one off in there before.”

 _With you,_ he doesn’t say. Because it’s petty, or something, and he’s _not_ a teenager anymore, that’s the whole point.

Silence spreads between them again, uneasy as Jack works things out, and Kent watches him.

“So, listen. I can bail. I can live with this without knowing you, if that’s what you want. You can handle your shit, get a boyfriend, or a therapist, maybe both, I don’t know -- I can bail.”

He wants the leave the ‘or’ where it hangs, because it’s safer.

“I just can’t live in halfway space again, man. Not for you, not for anyone.” Kent says. “I won’t do it again.”

Jack looks pained -- sad, those kicked puppy eyes swelling blue. “That’s not what I want.” If he looks sad, he sounds _frustrated_.

Kent feels frustrated, too, tight in his chest.  

But underneath that, there’s something else.

Kent rocks on his feet.

“We can’t start over.”

Jack’s quick to reply. “I don’t want to.”

Kent sighs. “It’ll be hard, I’m not -- you can’t Jack Zimmermann me like you did before, okay? I need real communication. I need someone who can--” He thinks about what Caroline would say. “I _deserve_ someone who can tell me how they feel.”

“Okay,” Jack says. Like it’s so simple.

“ _Okay?_ ” Kent echoes, exasperated, and he feels --

Too much, both him and Jack at once.

“That’s what I want. You asked, and I told you. Is that what you want?”

Kent laughs, stupid. Because, yeah, it is. It always will be, in some kinda fucked up way. Instead of telling Jack so, he says, “I want to go to dinner. With you. I want flowers. Day and night texts. Real romance shit. You have to watch Kit, and Grey’s Anatomy, and you have to buy real food for your fridge.”

Jack’s already up from his seat, and Kent’s still grinning, unable to keep himself from joking, because what the fuck, really -- “You can’t wake me up at 5AM for your stupid runs anymore, even if I definitely wanna go back to that romantic ass meadow spot, you manipulative shithead.”

Jack’s smiling too, until he’s not, until it’s perfect, until they’re kissing.

 

\--

 

Kent likes to think he’s not as dumb and careless and ready to go off as he was at 26, but in the case of professional hockey player schedules, deciding to impulse bang your not-boyfriend-not-ex-not-best-friend in the moment is absolutely fucking _valid._

It’s as good as Kent remembers, but different, too -- most of all, there’s no rush, no invisible time-threat looming over their heads, no phantom _need_ to get off as quickly as possible to avoid talking about it. Kent lets his hands linger over Jack’s as they slide down his front, exploring over top his shirt. He takes his time just _kissing_ , licking his way into Jack’s mouth and carving out a place for himself there again, relearning the way Jack’s body responds to his mouth.

Jack’s still impatient, though -- that hasn’t changed. Lips kissed-red and eyes blown, he presses his face into Kent’s chest and huffs, embarrassed. Kent laughs and pulls Jack’s hands up underneath his shirt, feeling the way it suddenly tips into him, the frenzy of emotions, the overwhelming need.

The shock as it pulls through the both of them at the sight of Jack’s name on Kent’s skin.

“Oh,” Jack says, and Kent sighs, and then there are Jack’s lips on Kent’s skin, mouth hot over the sprawl of his own name.

It feels right, cheesy as it is, right and _overwhelming_ and so good. The idea of it, the act of it, Jack actually _here_ underneath him after so long--

He pulls Jack back up with fingers in his hair, biting at his throat, his jaw. “God, Zimms--”

Jack nods, useless, and Kent half-laughs again, breathless between their bodies until Jack turns his head to bite at Kent’s fingers as they smooth down his face. Jack’s still in his basketball shorts and Kent in his sweats, but Kent can feel the way Jack’s hardening underneath him, and it makes his mouth fucking _dry._  

“This is really doing it for you, huh?” Kent breathes, not quite a chirp, too hypocritical of him, flushed to his toes. Except, he wants -- he wants what he never used to be able to afford, the time, the drawn out moments of watching Jack turn from impatient to needy to begging. He drags his ass against the press of Jack’s dick underneath him, and says, “I want-- let me get you off?”

Jack nods again, and Kent presses him down against the mattress, nudging at Jack’s shorts until Jack gets the message, rolling them off. While his back’s turned, Kent gets impatient himself, goes to press a kiss to Jack’s shoulder, down the line of back. Jack’s body is beautiful in the way hockey players always are, Kent guesses -- large, muscular, defined. Jack’s big, bigger than Kent, and yeah, that’s always done something for him. But more than that, Jack’s body is ribbed with scars, with tiny marks that signify incidents on the ice. Kent remembers the game Jack took a skate blade to the side, remembers the way his heart beat so hard and fast in his throat that he thought it was going to burst. He remembers this scar, and he remembers how he loved Jack through it.

Jack’s body is beautiful, but for Kent, it’s something more than just aesthetic.

“Wanna eat you out,” Kent says, mouth to skin, and Jack shudders so hard Kent wishes he could see the expression.

“Please,” Is all Jack says, hips jerking forward around open air, and Kent feels --

_Please / please / please / please_

They rearrange on the bed; Jack moving to his knees, back bowed, and Kent exhales audibly, thinking, Jesus, _Jesus_. He pulls the snap of Jack’s boxers over the swell of his ass to bite at one cheek, laving his tongue over the sting of it when Jack gasps.

“C’mon,” Jack says, and Kent bites down again, harder this time. There’s no gasp for it, just a moan, and Kent’s hands go to frame Jack’s hips, thinking, yeah.

Jack’s ass is ridiculous. Jack’s ass _defined_ fifteen year old Kent’s fantasies to an embarrassing extent. Fifteen year old Kent would probably die for this, but whatever, not dwelling.

Not dwelling too much.

“Goddamn Minaj prodigy,” Kent huffs, and even if Kent’s sure he doesn’t understand the reference, Jack snorts for it, pressing a hand down between his legs to jerk himself off.

Kent huffs again, smacking Jack’s hand away, muttering something about _impatience_ and spreading Jack’s cheeks with one hand. If there’s a moment of hesitation at the sight of Jack’s put so eagerly on display like this, it’s steadily bandaged by the way Kent can still hear Jack’s panting, his pleading, can _feel_ the way he wants this.

_God / now / now / please / Parse_

Kent licks a stripe up across Jack’s hole, pulling his hips back against his face when they jerk forward, Jack cursing something pretty in French. Kent’s only done this a few times before, too messy for some of the relationships with other guys he’s had, but Jesus, he could do it forever for Jack -- drag him right off the ice and drop to his knees in some abandoned closet and mess him up, eat him out, dig his fingernails sharp into the way his name is right fucking there, marking Jack for him --

He presses an open mouth kissed against Jack, sloppy and messy as saliva drips down his chin, and Kent groans against the skin, leaning back to watch the way Jack clenches around nothing, squirming back, now, against his face.

“ _Zimms_ ,” Kent whines, and he loves this, kind of, it’s been seconds and he already loves this. He spreads Jack apart with both hands, now, nudging the tip of his tongue inside Jack’s hole.

“Fuck, _oh_ , Kenny, Jesus, please--”

It’s the nickname that has Kent reeling, his cock aching inside his sweats. “Relax,” He says, and it’s -- stupid, a stupid request, because he’s anything but relaxed himself. “Help me hold you open.”

Jack’s shoulders go down to the mattress, one hand clenched in the sheets, one holding himself open for Kent’s tongue. It’s too hot, startlingly so, the way Jack’s just falling apart for him, here, so vulnerable. Kent wraps his free hand around Jack’s dick where he’s leaking so much, entire tip already covered in precome. Kent groans at the feeling, the shared feeling instantly of too much, too much, the way Jack’s thighs and abs are straining, the way he _wants_ to be three fingers in, wants to be kissing Jack, wants so much of this, an entire life of this, and now he can just have it--

“Kenny, Kenny, _Kenny--_ ” Jack’s near-constant whining at this point, hips rocking and face pressed down into the pillow. “Fuck,” he slurs, when he comes, Kent can feel it, in his own gut, the way he clenches tight around Kent’s tongue.

_Jesus._

Kent reels, dragging his sweatpants down just far enough to fist a hand around his own dick, Jack’s come mixing with his own, slick and wet. He’s holding Jack’s hips up, half-heartedly watching the way his hole flutters, feeling _content_ , and _warm_ , and _right_ , fuck, fuck --

Kent comes over his own hand, over Jack’s ass, on Jack’s bed, in Jack’s apartment.

He pants, open-mouthed as he rides down, flopping next to Jack on the mattress in a heap of limbs.

His smile is lazy and content and he wraps an arm around Kent too fast, too hot, too sweaty, but Kent loves it, loves this. He wants to grab ahold of Jack’s hand, press kisses to the inside of his wrists or some stupid shit because he feels like he’s flying, but he lets himself go for the cheek, instead, his heart still beating wildly inside his chest.

“Good?” Kent asks, despite the fact that Jack’s almost halfway to sleep, because he’s that guy, one orgasm and he’s _out,_ but Jack hums in agreement all the same, and Kent smiles, a little cheesy.

 

\--

 

He gets the roses. An absurd amount in his living room that he chirps appropriately on Instagram -- something about fans being crazy, but super sweet, _you guys wtf_ \-- until Jack texts him a single rose emoji, and Kent nearly dies laughing.

 _You’re so bad at this_ , he texts back, _Who sends so many?_ and Jack sends him a single smiley face.

He meets Shitty again, and Lardo continues to be way too cool for him. She chirps him for his taste in cars and he goes back home to Vegas feeling like he’s gotta sell it before coming back to Boston. He meets the Falconers, too, less formally than before -- not as Jack’s boyfriend, but as this guy that sometimes hangs out with Jack now, I guess.

The media eats it up. A long-time rivalry turned back to friendship? The first leaked candid of them at a basketball game makes it to every hockey news site, every mention in Kent’s twitter feed.

_Any chance we’ll be seeing the infamous Zimmermann-Parson duo make a come back?_

Kent just laughs, charming as ever, and shrugs.


End file.
